Destiny's Temprtress

by Janelle Taylor

  Blane grabbed Pete’s arm and flung him away from Shannon. He seized Horace’s limp body and did the same. He picked up the two rifles and tossed them into the woods, sorry he had not broken them first. Moving to Shannon’s side, he checked her condition. The bullet had grazed her temple, but the wound wasn’t serious. He examined her from head to toe for other injuries and, finding none, he exhaled loudly in relief and joy. His temper had almost cost her her life. He would have to learn to control it during those moments when the past seized him.

  Blane ripped the bandage from his head and cast it away. He found the clean fillet in her medical bag, then tended her gently. He was distressed. How could he explain his obligations? To her they wouldn’t sound just, or even true. Why had he kept silent this long? Because he had wanted to spend time with her! Because he wanted her! The moment she discovered the truth, she would leave him, with bitterness and hatred and mistrust in her heart. It was too late and too dangerous to reveal his intentions. And he wasn’t even certain any longer just what those intentions were. He had to decide how the past and future would affect Shannon and Eleanor. Damnation, he had to kill Corbett Greenleaf; he had promised revenge for Corry’s violation of Ellie. Lord, his indecisiveness was tormenting both of them.

  With only one horse, they would have to ride double and pray they weren’t sighted and chased. He walked his mount to where Shannon was lying. He wanted this woman, and by damn, he would try to keep her if there were any way possible! He went through her belongings to see what could be left behind to lessen the weight on his horse. He was grateful Shannon weighed so little. He stuffed her brush, slippers, and a set of undergarments into his saddlebags. Spreading out his sleeping roll, he placed one dress, a clean shirt, and a pair of pants on it; then he rolled the clothing inside to prevent stains and wrinkles.

  Everything else would have to be discarded. He noticed that Shannon hadn’t worn or brought along any jewelry. But he did feel two metal plates that she had attempted to conceal in a slit in the lining of her carpet bag. He wiggled his fingers until he captured the thin plates between them and was able to withdraw the pictures. The first one revealed the four-member Greenleaf family. Shannon appeared around sixteen in it. Lord, even then she had been an unforgettable vision!

  He stared at the two younger men, who were attired in Federal uniforms, and decided Corbett was the one with the laughing eyes and disarming smile. Both were good looking and muscular, as was their father, Andrew. Since the plates were in black and white, there was no way Blane could determine coloring. The expressions of all three exuded confidence and excitement; their bearings, wealth and breeding. Shannon’s look was guarded, with a hint of worry and sadness. The date of the photograph was apparent; it had been taken at the beginning of the war, just before the younger Greenleafs had left home. Two of the men were dead now, and he was the appointed executioner of the last one.

  Blane expected the next plate to be a photograph of Shannon’s mother. Instead, it was a picture of Shannon and a handsome man with very dark hair and eyes. The photograph had been taken in a garden, in the summer from the looks of the scenery and her clothing. The rugged male was standing almost behind her, with the top of her flaming head teasing just above his strong chin. That would make him a shade over six feet. As she posed within an encircling embrace, their arms and hands were overlapped. Their skin tones contrasted visibly. The man’s right cheek was nestled against her left temple. The couple on the metal plate looked so happy that day long ago, so perfect together. There was a glow in her eyes and a serenity in her expression that couldn’t be ignored; this was true of the man’s features as well. Their expressions and position riled Blane, for he knew this had to be the mysterious Hawke.

  Hazel eyes drilled into the striking features of Shannon’s companion, features that were strong and appealing, features that would be hard for most men to match or best. No wonder Thornton had lost out to this earthy male he had called a “rogue,” whatever his lineage. He held himself like a man on constant alert. Blane could perceive strength of will and body from the image. This was a man who feared nothing and no one. This was a man with keen instincts and considerable prowess. This was a man who knew how to survive, who was no coward or weakling. This was an awesome rival for any suitor!

  The love and rapport between this Hawke and Shannon was obvious. He eyed the beautiful woman, trying to guess her age and date the photograph. It could have been taken a few years past, or a few months past. He wished Hawke’s hand hadn’t been covering her left one. Yet Thornton hadn’t sounded as if he had been referring to a husband. Where was Hawke? Why had he left her? Was he alive?

  Blane cocked his arm to fling the rankling photographs into the woods, but he hesitated, then changed his mind. He might have use of these pictures, especially the one of Corry. He stood and went to his horse, concealing the thin plates in a special pocket beneath his saddle. To prevent her attackers from obtaining anything valuable, he sliced the bag and remaining items beyond use. He even cut through the stirrups and bridles to ruin the saddle.

  Blane tied the sleeping roll to his saddle and replaced his saddlebags. When all was ready, he gathered Shannon in his arms. Seizing the horn and placing his foot in the stirrup, he mounted. He laid her across his thighs and held her securely with his right arm. “Let’s go, Dan,” he murmured to his well-trained animal.

  Within an hour, Shannon was stirring. Blane continued their steady pace, his gaze defensively locked on the view ahead. It took a while for her to fully regain her senses. At first, she was confused.

  “Blane? Why am I riding with you? What happened to my head?”

  Without looking down at her, he stated crisply, “It’s obstinacy and impulsiveness that got you attacked and nearly killed. That was a stupid move. You were lucky those varmits couldn’t shoot straight.”

  Shannon tried to remember what had happened, but her mind was fuzzy. “How bad is the injury?” she inquired, aware of his irritation with her.

  “You’ll live. Too bad I can’t say the same for your horse.”

  “My horse?” Shannon peered around his arm. “Where is he?”

  “Dead,” he answered tersely. To prevent a lengthy discussion, he went on to relate the details of the frightful event. His mood and tone silenced her.

  Shannon rested her aching head against his brawny shoulder. She wished she hadn’t behaved so childishly. From his point of view, she was probably nothing more than a nuisance. He was used to traveling and working alone. No doubt she cramped his style and movements. She was always needing help or a rescue. She recalled how little sleep or rest he had gotten lately, especially last night. Reluctantly and ruefully, she murmured, “I’m sorry about the horse and all the trouble. Sometimes you just antagonize me beyond thinking or acting clearly.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” he retorted harshly. “If you don’t learn to follow orders by Wilmington, I’m leaving you there. Understand?”

  “What happened to your splint?” she inquired curiously.

  “I had to cut it off to save your miserablehide. When I find a safe place, I’ll let you make me a new one.”

  Shannon stiffened in his arms. “You don’t have to be so hateful. I apologized. At least I have a real wound to display now!” she snapped.

  “If we’re chased, you’ll wish you had a horse instead.”

  Shannon crossed her arms and sank into silence. She secretly wished he would make a mistake in judgment so she could rescue him. Then they would be even. No, it would require several on his part! she realized. Why did he have to be so smart and fearless—so right all the time?

  Blane halted their journey in midafternoon to rest and water his horse. He had avoided farmhouses, small settlements, and people. The woods were thick along the riverbank, offering them coverage. He unsaddled Dan and rubbed him with a dripping cloth for a short time. As Dan drank, grazed, and moved around, Blane joined Shannon.

  “Here,” he offered, holding out jerky and
a cold biscuit.

  Shannon looked at the brown roll of dried beef. “No thanks.”

  “How can you maintain strength if you don’t eat?”

  “Give me something decent and I will,” she replied tensely. “That stuff stinks and it makes my teeth sore. Hand me the biscuit.”

  Blane watched her nibble daintily on the bread and stare across the water. If she would be honest with him, he wouldn’t be so tough on her. Why was Hawke such a big secret? What if he were more of a barrier between them than Corry? “Shannon, where do you get your size and coloring? They’re unusual. I’m curious.”

  She turned her head and looked at him quizzically. From a bloody quarrel to a serene chat? “My mother was Irish. She had red hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. I take after her and her family, the O’Shannons of Kerry County, Ireland. They supplied my name and looks.”

  “Your mother must have been very beautiful,” he remarked.

  Shannon glanced his way again. “She was,” she admitted without sounding vain. “It was her family tradition to select names to flaunt the family’s roots and ties. She was named Kerry, and I got the Shannon. It’s also a major river there. She died when I was nine. That’s how I became such a tomboy, being raised by two brothers. My father traveled a lot with his business. I did tell you he was a cotton factor as well as a grower?” she asked, then watched him nod and smile.

  “For a few years I spent most of my time tagging after Temple and Corry. Sometimes I wonder how those days passed so quickly. But Temple and Corry discovered girls, so I was left to study all those girlish things. Then…” Shannon placed her fingers to her forehead and lowered her head. She massaged the spot as if her head pained her.

  Shannon remembered how most people had viewed and treated Hawke because of his half-blooded Indian birth. Of course it had been worse in his lands than in the South. Despite his bloodline to chiefs, he had been forced to earn his honor and position among his people. When he moved to Georgia, Hawke’s relationship with the family had been kept a secret. It seemed easier to explain the startling and somewhat suspicious adoption of a “half-savage woodscolt” than to expose Hawke as Andrew Greenleaf’s bastard son. She didn’t want to justify Hawke or her father’s rash actions to this mercurial stranger who had revealed a fierce hatred and contempt for Comanches. Too, such an explanation would uncover so many painful, complex, and intensely personal experiences and emotions, and might inspire many questions and doubts. Her father’s wanton behavior and his cruel rejection of Hawke could give Blane a terrible opinion of her and her family. After that incident with Clifford, she felt Blane might think her guilty of some wrong—like father like daughter. “What about your home and family?” she asked.

  “Like I said, I’m from Texas, from a large family. There were seven of us kids, five boys and two girls. My family had a ranch near Fort Worth until October of’60, called the Rocking S. We raised cattle and horses, and sometimes a lot of mischief. My parents and two of my brothers, Kirby and Daniel, were slain during a Comanche raid in ’51. I was eighteen, trapped in the middle of the pack, and burning for adventure and revenge. Besides, a ranch doesn’t need three brothers all trying to be boss. I suppose I always was a restless youth who didn’t care for raising cattle or busting my rear breaking mustangs. I didn’t want to give orders or follow ’em. Becoming an Indian scout got me off the ranch and taught me plenty about life and people. You could say it made a man of me, or tried its damnedest,” he jested, then sent her a winning smile. “I’ve probably killed more Comanches than you’ve got red hairs. I made those devils sorry they attacked the Stevens’s ranch. This was a gift from them,” he remarked dryly, pointing to the scar on his jawline.

  “Clayton and Jory worked the ranch while I tried to clear Texas of renegades. Then the Cavalry got involved and convinced me to roam half the West, taking on any devil with red skin. That kind of existence gets stale, Shannon. When the talk got hot about war, I figured I’d try my hand at battling a different kind of enemy. I joined the Union forces the day war was declared. Jory stayed behind with his wife, Martha, and Clayton’s got Sue Anne. They’re taking care of a pack of kids and the new ranch near Houston. My older sister, Lucille, is married to a cavalryman named Edward Connor; they’re living at a fort in the Dakota Territory with two sons.”

  Shannon was glad he was finally relating facts about himself. Thank goodness she had not mentioned Hawke or Comanches! Blane had not revealed a woman in his life, present or past. Whose ring was she wearing? Why had it been in his pocket? She dared not be nosy. Too many questions, especially about the ring, might silence him. Let him open up at his own speed. Be polite and charming. Don’t panic him, she told herself. “What about Major Blane Stevens, now that he’s a man?”

  He joined her laughter, then answered jokingly, “As for Major Blane Stevens, he plans to return home as soon as Lincoln finishes with him. Funny how a war changes a person. Ranching doesn’t look so bad to him anymore. How’s the head?” he probed.

  She noted how he had changed the subject. Her fingertips gingerly felt the sensitive area. “Fine. Probably just a flesh wound.”

  “We’re both lucky,” he replied, his voice chilly. “Let’s ride.”

  As she swatted a fly on her bloody sleeve, she crinkled her nose and asked, “Can I wash up and change shirts?”

  “No. You’re safer dressed like that. But drop your braid into sight. I don’t want any more varmints mistaking you for a man. I’ll get two branches and you can wrap my leg again.” In his turbulent state of mind, he had forgotten about his disguise.

  Shannon glanced toward his saddle on the ground. Her eyes widened. “Where are my things?” she shrieked in alarm.

  “I had to leave most of them behind. Two people and a few supplies are more than enough for Dan to carry.”

  “You threw away my clothes and…” Shannon went pale and quiet. Anguish filled her eyes as they darted about in thought.

  Blane knew she was more upset about the loss of the photographs than her garments. He told her what he had spared, except for the pictures. “I figured you might need a dress and slippers along the way.”

  Shannon stood and paced. “We have to go back, Blane. I had something valuable hidden in my bag.”

  “Money? Jewels?” he inquired with feigned innocence.

  “No,” she finally responded. “Family pictures.”

  “I’m sorry, Shannon, but we can’t turn back. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Please,” she beseeched him, her eyes teary and her voice strained.

  Blane was relieved she hadn’t lied to him. He sensed her pain, but he couldn’t lessen it. He needed the photograph of Corry more than she did. And he couldn’t return the one without the other. Later he would, but for now he told her, “No.”

  “Damn you! You had no right to throw away my belongings! I’m going back,” she stated defiantly.

  “We’ve been riding for hours, Shannon. You wouldn’t know where to look, and I’m not going to tell you. A picture isn’t worth risking our lives. I said I was sorry.” Blane quelled his guilt. “Listen to me, Flame. By now, we could have Rebels on our heels. What if soldiers found those two men? How would they know who attacked whom? I won’t let you charge into danger. You’re injured, woman. We can’t make good time sharing a horse, so stop acting like a baby. You’ve only yourself to blame for riding off like that.”

  Shannon whirled away from him. “Damn you for always being right! I’ll admit the incident was my fault. Everything that happens seems to be my fault, or you think it is. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t discard all of my things.” She lowered her head and inhaled raggedly. “Those photographs were so precious to me, Blane. They were my only link to family and home—sometimes my only link to sanity. As long as I had the photographs, I didn’t have to face the truth. If I could look at their faces, I could believe they were alive and real. It gave me hope. I hate this war, and sometimes I hate you. I want to go home. I want my famil
y. I want…”

  Blane had been walking toward her, touched by her anguish. He had been about to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Shannon’s half-finished statement halted him, for he assumed it was Hawke she wanted. Blane was mistaken. Shannon had almost said, “I want you.”

  Blane seized her shoulders and roughly pulled her around to face him. He shook her, commanding, “Get hold of yourself, Flame.”

  Shannon burst into tears. She dropped her face to his chest and clung to his waist. Blane didn’t know what to do or say. He couldn’t push her away. His arms closed around her shoulders. He decided he was being too rough on her. Maybe she had a good reason for lying to him. She couldn’t help who or what she was. Under these circumstances, her mistakes were understandable. Yes, he was blaming her unjustly and treating her unfairly. Actually, she was doing extremely well. She had shown courage, daring, cunning, and stamina.

  What did it matter if she were reaching out to him to soothe or to replace another loss? And what if she were using him for her own purposes? Wasn’t he doing the same with her, using her as a cover, using her to obtain information, using her to get to Corry? Why did it trouble him that she loved or had loved another man? Maybe Hawke was dead. Maybe Corry was dead. Maybe her home was lost. Maybe she had no one and nothing left. In view of recent happenings, he couldn’t fault her for being afraid, for crying. After all, she was a woman.

  “Don’t cry, Shannon. I know I’m being a selfish, hard-nosed brute. I’m just trying to keep us alive and safe. I’m used to traveling and working alone. I don’t take delays or defeats well. You scared me this morning. When I saw you lying in that grass, bloody and out cold, I went wild. I nearly beat those Rebs to death. I get impatient and angry when people do reckless things. No matter what you think, I don’t want you harmed, and. I don’t blame you for our misfortunes. You’ve been a good partner, and I hate seeing you this miserable. I’m sorry about your things, but we have to keep moving ahead.”